Book 1 - Eurydice Resurrected
by DayStorm
Summary: Derek Morgan is "recruited" to help rescue a young girl who had been abducted months before. The BAU are called to assist, but Derek has a secret to keep from his team. None of them can know what was done to him to secure his aid in the girl's rescue.
1. Intro

**_*It goes without saying that Criminal Minds – the story and all related characters – belong to the writers, cast and crew of the show. I claim no ownership or association to the TV series titled Criminal Minds. This was written by a fan solely for the enjoyment of other fans.*_**

 **Intro**

* * *

The girl stumbled through the trees, feeling the wet slap of leaves against her face. The rich scent of damp earth, living wood and spring rain filled her head. Delicious smells that would have made her mouth water, if she were safe. If she were home instead of here; breaths sawing in her throat as she raced through the forest. Bare feet cut and bleeding, leaving a trail of tiny crimson flecks she knew would be followed but there was nothing she could do about that. She had no shoes. No socks.

She ran.

Large eyes opened wide, near-blind in the night.

No glow bathed the bloated bellies of the storm clouds overhead, visible through the intertwined branches of the trees. No city light shining up from below to show any place she might run towards. She was alone and lost and seeing the trunks of trees in time to evade them took every ounce of focus she could manage. Slowing down would have made dodging those unforgiving trunks easier, but they would be after her now and she couldn't risk it.

Couldn't risk crying out for help.

Couldn't risk slowing down.

Couldn't breathe . . . her lungs tightened inside her chest, squeezing as if there wasn't enough room for them anymore. Her lungs burned and itched from her gasping so hard. Starved for air. Her feet tangled, knees going suddenly weak. One small hand shot out, catching herself before she fell. Her palm scrapped almost raw on the rough bark of an oak.

Her spirit drove her to get up, to keep running. But her small body had been worn down. She couldn't move. The white cotton nightgown she wore was soaked with rainwater. Her muscles trembled beneath her skin, rolling little tremors. Too cold. Too tired.

And then she heard them.

Dogs. The guttural, excited baying of hounds.

The girl pulled her knees up to her chin, tears mixing with the drizzle on her face. Her head ached with fear. Belly tight with sickness and disgust.

She huddled against the trunk of that big tree, her head full of the spiciness of the evergreens mixed with the leafy trees all around her. Rolling her slight body into a ball, she fit between the woody roots at the base of her big oak tree. The rain having washed a small indent in the mud, creating a natural cradle where the young girl could hide.

The dogs howled and yapped, their voices rising over the rush of wind through the treetops. The girl quailed, fear leaving a taste like sour candies in her mouth. She clamped her jaw firmly shut, refusing to cry. They were coming for her and she couldn't run from the dogs. They were faster and stronger and they had sharp teeth and hot, wet tongues. They would find her in this small hiding place, and the men who came with them would take her back.

"H-help," she whispered, so quietly. Her breath warm on her hands.

It was the first sound she had made since she escaped, crawling up through an old coal pipe. She was just – **_just_** – small enough to fit. She imagined it was why her captors hadn't thought to seal the entrance closed, as they'd done for all the holes where a child might slip through. There would have been no point, and the pipe was useful in that it allowed fresh air to circulate underground without needing to leave the door open.

The dogs snarled; throaty voices almost right on top of her.

So near!

She huddled deeper, pressing herself into the moss and mud as if the earth might swallow her. Hide her from the people who were coming. Erase her from the world so that she could sleep in the ground forever and ever. Safe.

Hard white beams danced crazily over the surrounding trees, the drizzle sparkling in the light. They were the flashlights of her pursuers. Big men with heavy bodies and hot hands she couldn't fight.

She was still too tired to run, and now it was too late to even try . . .


	2. Chapter 1

_***It goes without saying that Criminal Minds – the story and all related characters – belong to the writers, cast and crew of the show. I claim no ownership or association to the TV series titled Criminal Minds. This was written by a fan solely for the enjoyment of other fans.***_

 **Chapter 1**

* * *

These woods are lovely, dark and deep

But I have promises to keep

And miles to go before I sleep

And miles to go before I sleep

– **Robert Frost**

* * *

Derek Morgan would not have noticed the woman in the white blouse, had it not been for her deliberate attention.

She hadn't taken her eyes off of him from the moment he stepped into the little coffeehouse a quarter mile from his home. He frequented this particular place as a regular, and so the majority of the staff recognized him with smiles and chipper _"good mornings'!"_ over the hard grind of coffee beans and the hiss of the percolators.

In turn, it wasn't unusual for Derek to recognize the other patrons who came here. To stop a moment and chat with those regulars or with the girl behind the counter. Most knew what he did for a living. It was never broadcast but they knew he was FBI and his services had been requested many times to _'look into'_ a suspected cheating spouse or missing child who'd only wandered off to plaster his face against the cake display.

So at first Derek thought the woman in the white blouse was another of those. But that unwavering stare . . . as if considering his worth as a man rather than a cop. He was he was being measured, and Derek found himself watching her, too.

She was attractive, he allowed, with a sweep of raven hair falling over one shoulder. Dark eyes subtly shadowed, while her lips were painted a more deliberate rose pink. Her smile was easy and confident, accentuating the healthy glow of her skin. Skin lighter than his, but not white. Latina, if he had to guess.

Her age was more difficult to pin down. Twenty five? Thirty five? He couldn't tell and that moment of indecision, that small frustration, drew him like a moth to fire.

Her smile widened immediately, as she saw he intended to join her. Picking his coffee off the counter and dropping his change in the tip jar by the register, Derek maneuvered to the woman's solitary table by the wall. Not a window seat, but a good spot where she had an uninterrupted view of the entire shop.

"Come here often?" she greeted him, her voice richly accented.

Derek smiled, showing his teeth and sat at the chair across from her. His coffee burning his hand through the cup, he set it down and cracked the lid to let steam escape.

"Now and again," he said, noncommittally.

 _Come here often?_ She meant it as a joke, tossing out that classic line and Derek felt himself unclench – surprised that he had to. He'd been unaware of how uncomfortable her attention made him. Physically, she was stunning. With eyes too focused to be anything less than highly intelligent and a quiet steadiness when her gaze locked with his. A woman who was fully in the moment, not easily distracted.

But now that he was closer, better able to gauge her moods, she seemed more innocent than womanly. As if she hadn't meant for her very deliberate stare to seem as seductive as it had.

Twenty five? Thirty five?

"What about you?" he asked, seeing that she was waiting for him to say more. "Come here often?"

She caught her bottom lip with pearly white teeth. Said, "I thought I'd try someplace new. And to answer what you were really asking me; no, you have not seen me before."

Her eyes were so dark . . . but he saw that there were tiny amber lights around the pupils, expanding into a nearly invisible starburst of color. The amber melted so seamlessly into the near-black of her irises that had he not been looking straight into her eyes he never would have seen them. Lovely. Unsettling.

"In all seriousness, I was looking for somewhere nice to drop a dollar in the morning." The woman tapped a fingernail on the side of her china white coffee cup. "I think I found the place. I'm Autumn."

"Derek," he said, easing into talking to her. Her manner was comfortable. Shoulders relaxed, face expressive and interested. Not coy, but involved and willing to talk. In a word, she came across as genuine. And that was something he could appreciate. "What made you leave the other place?"

"Hm?" Autumn lifted a single delicately arched brow.

"You said you were looking for somewhere new." Derek blew on his coffee, the steam hot against his upper lip. Still not cool enough to drink. He set the cup back down.

Autumn blinked, but smiled. Startled by the probing question, and maybe a little intrigued that he'd heard what she only implied. Derek was a man who paid attention when someone was talking to him. Like her, every part of him was right here.

"Green's Teahouse," she said after a moment, a rueful little smile curling her lips. "It was the kind of place you had to know was there, to even find it. But it was quiet. A good place to sit and watch the sun come up."

"Early bird?"

"No," Autumn laughed, now. Her voice richer, layered with subtle complexity. "But I find peace in the dawn. No demands or voices to intrude. Only me and my time. I find it steadies me."

Now that was something he understood. Derek had precious little time to himself – acutely aware of the phone clipped to his belt. All the time; he was always on-call. He envied Autumn her morning Zen.

Derek gleaned two bits of information from what she said. First, her work was demanding for her to feel she _**needed**_ this time. The second is that her former spot – Green's Teahouse – must have gone out of business. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure when she mentioned it. She wouldn't have replaced a spot she loved with a coffee joint downtown if it was still there.

"Good choice, then," Derek offered. He tilted his head to indicate the shop they were in. "Though I can't promise you quiet. This place is busy in the morning."

Autumn said nothing to that, only smiling over the lip of her cup as she took a slow drink. Savoring her sip as if there was no more delicious cup of coffee in the world. The rich fragrance of dark roast wafted around the both of them. A ding at the door as someone came into the shop. Derek didn't look over there, his attention fixed on the beguiling woman sitting with him.

She smiled and set her coffee down, no color having come off on the white cup. Her lipstick was expensive. That agreed with his assessment. Her white blouse was a soft silk so fine that it seemed liquid draped over her shoulders. Billowing loosely, but still touching her body in the right places to bring modest attention to her womanly figure. She wore bits of gold. Enough to sparkle enticingly in the bright morning sunshine, but such understated pieces. Higher middleclass. Casual wealth.

Despite his observations, Derek was having unusual difficulty in reading her. It was rare for him to feel that he was missing something; that he was being successfully manipulated and for the life of him he couldn't figure what about Autumn pricked at his instincts. Maybe that was why he stayed, while his gut warned him to withdraw. To watch himself.

"Might be busy here in the morning," Autumn said, breaking through his inner monologue. "But I noticed the shiny new Starbucks opened around the corner. Should have closed this places' doors but hasn't made much of an impact. Points to this little place. Excellent coffee, or is it the company?"

Derek smiled, mildly amused by Autumn's assessment of the coffee shop's value and with the very slight attempt at flirting. "I'd like to think the company has something to do with it."

"Hm. Now, I have a question for you." Autumn gave her cup another little tap with her fingernail. Derek nodded, inviting her to go on. She did, "What kind of name is _Sylvester's_ for a café?"

 _ **That**_ was so unexpected that Derek laughed out loud. Not because he disagreed, but that he'd asked himself the very same thing when he first began to frequent the spot.

"Named after the owner's cat if you can believe it," he told her, still chuckling a little. Autumn's eyes sparkled with shared amusement and she leaned eagerly forward to hear the rest. "Girl fresh out of college opened this place and couldn't think of what to call it. I think she might have settled."

"Sylvester?" Autumn mused. "She named her cat Sylvester? Like in the cartoon?"

"Just like in the cartoon."

"Clever."

He thought so, too. An original name, at least, for a shop that sold coffee and heavy pastries.

"So, tell me. How did _**you**_ find this place?"

Derek tilted one shoulder in a shrug. "Same as you. I wandered in one day and just kept coming back."

"Hm."

"What?"

"You don't like to talk about yourself," Autumn remarked. She offered a small, playful smile. "Shy? Or do you have something to hide?"

"Maybe I have something to hide," Derek said without hesitation. He smiled in return, to show he was kidding. "I have secrets. Big ones."

"Oh? Like what?" She took another small drink from her coffee, the gesture accentuating the challenge in her voice. Eyes like obsidian jewels sparkled with mischief, making the gold crown around the pupils gleam.

He pointed out, "If I told you, they wouldn't be secrets."

Derek followed her example, taking a sharp swig from his paper to-go cup. Still too hot, the drink scalded his tongue. He grimaced in pain and swallowed hard, feeling the liquid-burn slide all the way down.

"Oh, Derek," Autumn said very seriously. "Secrets are meant to be shared, or else they risk being lost forever."

Derek set his cup down, letting his hand linger on the hot paper sides for a second. Feigning casual. "You speaking from experience?"

A sad little smile touched Autumn's pink lips.

"When I came in," Derek said carefully. "You were already here, waiting for me."

Testing her response to his statement, but it wasn't such a long-shot. From the moment he stepped through the door, she hadn't taken her eyes off of him. Not appreciatively or with lust, but contemplative. He'd sensed he was being considered. It's what pulled him into her orbit to start with. Anything else and he would have politely declined her invitation to join her. The table she'd chosen, he realized now, was deliberate. Out of the way. Small. Two chairs.

Autumn did not admit that she was, in fact, waiting for him.

She didn't need to.

It was in the way her eyes dipped, her gaze falling to her hands folded a little too stiffly on the table between them. The slight current glossing over the surface of her coffee, to show she trembled. It was all so subtle, so contained he knew she was trying very hard to hold herself together . . . and succeeding.

"Oh, Derek," she said, lifting those startling eyes to his. "Secrets are complicated. For everyone who has a secret, there's someone else who needs to know what it is. I do believe that some are meant to be shared, so that they are never lost. Important things given as gifts, to those you trust. I believe that with all my heart."

 _And then there are those you keep. Holding them closest to your heart, in a secret place where no one will ever see them,_ Derek silently finished for her. A dull ache beat in his chest, pricking at memories best left buried. Secrets he couldn't be rid of, no matter how hard he tried to exorcise his demons.

A rueful smile curled Autumn's lips. "You understand."

"Why were you looking for me?"

"Because I need you, Derek," she said, surprising him. "I need your help."

 **XxXxXx**

Derek followed Autumn out of _Sylvester's_ , matching his stride to hers. Her shiny black shoes clipped sharply on the cracked pavement outside. His own steps were relatively quiet, the soft leather of his boots better absorbing the shock of his weight on the sidewalk. It was only seven in the morning and already the day turned hot. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck. The collar of his t-shirt growing damp where it was pressed into his skin.

Autumn had no purse. No jacket. Nothing that she needed to grab when she stood up from their table, her raven hair glistened in the bright morning sunlight. It was light that caressed her skin; deepening the amber lights in her eyes to where they seemed to glow.

Derek had seen many women in his line of work. Many women outside of work, too. He could keep both perspectives separate – able to appreciate a woman's appearance with the clinical detachment of a profiler, rather than the baser attention that comes from lusting after a body. But the cop in him did pause to wonder why he followed her out of the coffee shop when she asked.

"Thank you for this," Autumn said, sensing Derek's growing hesitation. Her smile was genuine, gratitude spilling over. Also a profound relief and he thought that coming to him was very likely a last hope. Her last-ditch effort at having herself heard.

Derek did not say this out loud.

"Can't imagine what you must think of me," she continued. "Poor little woman, can't manage things by herself."

Autumn folded her arms across her stomach, her blouse pulling over her shoulders. A clean, crisp white. He saw no bruises or markings to suggest she'd been beaten; her movements were smooth without any wince to betray soreness or an injury beneath her clothes where he couldn't see. Not that it meant anything. Not all abused wives had busted lips. And she did carry herself with the sort of polished poise of someone who was very used to hiding the pain she felt inside.

And if her husband was rich, connected, there would be very little she could do. Nowhere to turn. A painful truth, but there you have it. Money buys deniability. She would have had no one.

"I don't think that," Derek said. The pause between her words and his response had stretched for too long. Autumn bristled, undoubtedly thinking that is _**exactly**_ what Derek thought of her. She was weak.

Even without seeing the place she was leading him, Derek knew where they were going. A parking lot two streets down, which is where Autumn would have left her car. From there, it was a quick walk to _Sylvester's_. You couldn't park directly in front, so a lot of people did that.

Whatever situation she was in, she refused to divulge it. Not in a crowded café, or while on a public street. He could understand that. He applauded her effort.

"Look, it's not that I don't have options. I do."

Derek paused on the street, the tall metal bar of a chain-link fence swaying in a stiff breeze beside him. Autumn stopped too, and turned to him. The wind teased in her hair, lifting those heavy tresses off her shoulders.

"You never said what sort of trouble you were in."

She hadn't, and the spark in her ebony eyes betrayed her. She didn't want to tell him. Whatever it was – spousal abuse, or more – she was keeping it to herself. Derek saw the walls come down and felt that if he didn't say something now she would close herself off and he wouldn't be able to open that door again.

"Look, I want to help you," he said and that was the truth. "But you got to be straight with me."

"I am being straight," Autumn said.

There it was. Her nerves cracking.

The warm morning wind gusted again; the fence clacking noisily. It would have been so easy for Derek to push, confident that only a little more pressure would turn those cracks into a full break. He made the conscious decision not to. Behind the strange golden glow in Autumn's dark eyes was a vulnerability that warned him to tread more carefully.

She was not an unsub.

Autumn drew a sharp breath. Her breasts rose and fell on a sigh.

She was still so calm, and et the stiffening of her shoulders . . . the way she quickly pulled herself together so that the sadness in her eyes turned to glass; hard and cold. Finding the strength needed to face the FBI man who walked with her.

"I meant what I said," she told him. "Thank you for this. You have no idea how it means to me that you listened."

The phrasing of that statement pricked at his instincts.

"Who hurt you?"

A sad little smile touched her lips. "Nobody hurt me, Derek."

"What happened to you?" he rephrased the question.

Derek followed Autumn into the brick alcove between the lot and a bookstore, sunlight shining off the many colorful hoods of parked cars. Clouds slid lazily across the sun, plunging the city in cool shade for only a moment before moving on. Summer heat already soaring even though it was still so early in the day. Derek scratched at the back of his neck, irritated by the prickle of sweat forming there.

"Oh, Derek," Autumn gave another heavy sigh, air whooshing through parted pink lips. "You're asking the wrong questions."

He countered, "What are the right questions?"

No response. Derek scanned the parking lot, surprised to find that he was on the wrong side of the fence. Autumn had led him between the chain-link and the solid length of a brick wall. So focused on her he hadn't paid attention to where he was going and that was a shocking lapse.

He did not see the liquid gold crown in Autumn's eyes flare; the color spilling out from her pupils in a burst of color. Spectacularly bright against the ebony-brown of her irises.

Derek turned around, animal instinct shooting a single warning up the length of his spine. It was all so fast that he didn't even think to reach for his weapon.

With the solid palms of her hands, Autumn slammed her full weight into his chest. Pressing him back against the solid bricks of the wall behind him; the suddenness of her attack startling. White pain erupted, slicing into his throat with pitiless intensity. Blood poured from his severed artery in a rush of heat down the front of his chest.

"S-stop," escaped in a whoosh of air from his lungs.

His head fell back, hands pushing against the body pressing against his. He couldn't dislodge the woman and she refused to let go, holding him even tighter as he struggled. Freeing himself wouldn't save him. He knew that. That was his lifeblood draining away; pouring out of him so quickly he lost the point of whatever else he might have been thinking . . . like sand running through his fingers.

Derek's head was full of the scent of Autumn's floral shampoo, and the high whistle of noise in his ears as he bled to death.

She had her face buried in his throat, and the pain in his throat pinched; a sharpness digging even deeper. Darkness pressed even closer, filling his vision with flickering gray points. Pressure building in his sinuses. His heart beating . . . beating . . .

Derek experienced a moment of profound clarity, and it was like the sun breaking through the clouds. A single precious second before he succumbed to his own death. He did not think of his family. His friends. His team. He wasn't gifted with a movie-reel of his life's greatest hits, or the worst. None of that.

His finale thought was very simply one of disbelief; he never saw it coming . . .


	3. Chapter 2

_***It goes without saying that Criminal Minds – the story and all related characters – belong to the writers, to the network and to the cast and crew of the show. I claim no ownership or association to the TV series titled Criminal Minds. This was written by a fan solely for the enjoyment of other fans.***_

 **Chapter 2**

* * *

 _Get up. Get up, Derek. Wake up . . ._

He couldn't. He couldn't move. Darkness swelled, filling every crack and crevice. It was all around him and he could feel it crushing his body. The weight pressing down, intolerably heavy and light as air simultaneously. Like he should have been able to push it aside, only he couldn't.

Derek was dead. Buried alive. There was six feet of earth pressing in on him, smothering him. Choking him. No, not chocking. He _**could**_ breathe. Air, not soil, filled his burning lungs.

 _Wake up, Derek. Wake up._

He wanted to shout, _'I'm awake! Here! I'm here!'_

His jaw locked, like it'd been nailed shut. He couldn't make a sound.

Derek's fevered mind spun; slowly slipping between the different sections of his character. Like blocks falling through a hole . . . chunky and individual. Child. Man. Cop. Profiler. A leaking womb bulging with the promise of consciousness. This person called Derek Morgan fighting to pull all the scattered pieces of himself together.

"Derek," the voice punched straight through the darkness "Shhhhh. I'm here, Derek, I'm here."

Past, present and future converged. Time stretching inexorably onward. Forever and ever.

That voice. He wanted to answer her, but he was too broken . . .

 **XxXxXx**

Emptiness with only the faintest flicker of thought whispering words he couldn't understand.

Ghosts.

Derek woke all in a rush, his death ripped away and replaced by brilliant life. Pain sizzled over his skin. His blood heavy; feeling like it was dragging through his veins. Light and sound and taste returned and it was like a crack of lightning. Shocking. Brutally painful.

His entire body . . . was on _**fire**_. From his throat, a single strangled plea, "H-help!"

A roar filled his head, and Derek knew he was in hell. The fire that ravaged him burned with a ferocity that showed the fires he'd known before were only a tame imitation. Hellfire was pitiless and it was everywhere. Burning him without killing him. Through the agony, danced faint memory.

He remembered dying. Felt again his eyes rolling back, helpless against the grasping fingers dragging him down into a void from which there was no coming back. Deeper and deeper, death like water closing over his head. He'd reached for the light; like a man drowning watching the surface pull away but whatever had a hold of him drew him pitilessly down.

And now he was in hell.

Devoured by white fire, unspeakable agony. He couldn't scream. Couldn't buck and writhe, though he wanted to. The pain so severe he couldn't even reach his own limbs to slap at the flames.

Stop. Stop! No more.

And then . . .

. . . something cool washed over him. Like spring rain and aloe, slowly extinguishing the flames.

With all the desperation of the damned, he strained for more of it. _More, please more, it hurts!_ The hellfire returned with a vengeance, all the more acute for the momentary relief. Roaring fury all around him; inside him. Sharp claws slashing at the underside of his skin.

No mercy. No end to this hell.

Hearing was the first of his senses to be released from the white hot quagmire. Voices whispering. The distant hiss of traffic. He recognized the sounds, could even assign words to what they were, but the pain was still to all-encompassing. He couldn't make himself care.

What mattered – the only thing that mattered – was the blessed relief.

More. More poured into his throat, ice that cooled the burning. They were only split-second reprieves at first, dousing the hellfire eating at him. Insatiably hot. Each merciful shot of ice lasting a little longer than the one before, and in those spaces he found pieces of himself. Fragments of distorted memory. His soul.

Derek opened his eyes; not to a lake of fire but to tile and porcelain.

Awareness returned with a shocking suddenness. Scattered pieces falling into their proper places so smoothly that without his training he might not have even noticed how far lost he was. To pull himself together, the cracks in his psyche filling in until even the memory of them faded into the abstract. Derek wasn't only unbroken. He was _**sane**_.

Sane but nothing was the same. Derek reeled at the alien acuity of his senses.

He could see, hear, smell, touch and taste . . . oh, god. _**Taste!**_

Something delicious was in his mouth. Derek swallowed hard, delirious with the heavenly flavor like ambrosia. It had the consistency of cream on his tongue. He knew at once that it's what had driven the hellfire from his body. A balm that soothed him. The last lagging bit of reality clicked into place and Derek lifted weary eyes; disbelief competing with euphoria.

He was in a bathroom.

Sink, toilet, bathtub. The bathroom was small, utilities cramped together so that they would fit in the space. A single unlit bulb on the ceiling. The smell of soap and heaven clogging his nostrils. The scents so strong he winced away from them.

Derek swallowed hard, his throat burning with thirst while the creamy flavor coating the inside of his mouth was foreign. He couldn't place it. His head rolled weakly, mind churning to understand what . . . what . . .

He was in the bath . . .

Derek's long, muscled body stretched out so that his feet were down by the open drain. Too tall to properly fit, his shoulders were lifted up out of the tub. His head braced on the white-tiled wall as if he'd been propped up while unconscious though he had the sinking sensation he may have done that himself. The screaming pain he endured stiffening his limbs so that he pushed with his feet, propelling his entire body up and out.

Derek stretched, relieving some of the pressure building in his shoulders. His sweater clung to the defined muscles of his chest and stomach. The gunmetal gray fabric blackened and wet. Wetness coated his arms, pooling in the dips and hollows. Lifting his hands, he saw how the blood gummed between his fingers.

Fear knotted in his stomach.

Inches of purplish blood pooled in the bottom of his bathtub, trickling slowly into the open drain. On his lap were bags, a half-dozen scattered like discarded playing cards. _St. Jude's Memorial_ was stamped into the heavy plastic. Derek picked one up, holding it shakily with clumsy fingers. The bags had been torn open and savaged. Just ripped apart. More bags splat on the pink linoleum of the bathroom floor, their contents drained away.

And the smell. Coppery sweet.

Derek was too familiar with the scent of blood, but never like this. The blood soaking is clothes smelled like cotton candy and dark, decadent chocolates. He drew a deep breath without meaning to, pulling that mouthwatering scent into his body. Feeling it soak into starved cells. That smell . . . that smell . . . his mouth was filling with spit. The urge to lick his fingers, to press his soaked sweater into his mouth and suck what he could off his clothes was nearly overpowering. He _**wanted**_ to.

The thought shook him to his core.

The flavor – liquid coating his tongue – felt like the heavy milk Penelope added to thicken her coffee. Desire coursed through his body so forcefully it was nearly pain. Horror like poison shot over his psyche. His mind balked, refusing to accept the only conclusion.

There was _**blood**_ in his mouth and he liked it.

Muscles straining with the effort it took to find purchase on the slick porcelain, Derek heaved himself out of the bathtub. He felt surprisingly strong, his body responding to his commands with uncanny swiftness but on the inside he was still shaking. The memory of the pain he'd endured searing his brain with fire. Taunting him with the possibility that it might return.

He was scared. So deeply afraid.

He couldn't take it. Not again.

Derek's bare feet slipped on the blood-splattered floor and he skidded to the sink, holding on with both hands to keep from falling. He felt like something inside of him was changing; was still in the process of going through some awful metamorphosis he didn't understand and that when it was done, he would know it.

Derek's entire body trembled. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He could feel it there, hot, and the way his stomach pitched and rolled. He swallowed but that did nothing to ease the nausea twisting his gut, instead only bringing attention to the hunger gnawing at him. The taught muscles in Derek's arms bulged, veins rising under his skin as he strained to keep himself upright. Leaning his weight on the sink basin.

What was happening?

His right foot was slipping on a discarded, flattened plasma bag. They were like a deck of cards scattered over the bloody floor. There was blood everywhere; it dripped from the showerhead. Splashed over the walls. The ceiling. A liquid sweet scent, he was nearly delirious from it. Derek lifted his weary gaze to the red-splattered mirror.

A fresh swell of terror threaded through his emotions, but he had to see. He had to know what was done to him. Derek closed his eyes, drawing whatever courage remained to him so that he could do this thing. Releasing his indrawn breath on a soft sigh, he looked into the mirror hung over the sink . . .

"What – the – hell . . ."

He clutched the mirror, bringing his face closer to the reflective glass and stared straight into his own eyes.

They were gold.

Not entirely, no, Derek's eyes were still the same solid brown as they'd always been. Only now they were cut with the deepest amber-gold ring which flared from his pupils. A burst of honey color. He stared at them, scarcely able to believe what he was seeing.

There was blood – wet and still dripping – caking his mouth and nose. A fat glob of crimson hung off his chin.

Derek pushed off from the mirror and slammed into the bathroom door, feeling the wood give under his weight. Hunger gnawed savagely under his skin, tightening his stomach into a painful knot but the worst of it came as a tremor of cold and numbness all through his body. His body crying out for nourishment with pitiless demand. The sweet and decadent scent of blood making his mouth water. Derek could not have been able to stop himself, even had he the presence of mind to try.

He snatched a discarded blood bag off the floor, and stuck the torn plastic into his mouth. Licking the crimson dregs left between the folds . . .

 **XxXxXx**

Derek washed the worst of the blood from his hands and face.

At the little sink under a spray of warm water, he scrubbed as hard as he could to remove the traces from his skin. His stomach churned with distaste. He couldn't bring himself to watch the delicious red swirl around the basin before being lost to the drain.

To distract himself, he tried to take measure of his surroundings.

He saw things that he'd missed before. A plastic pump bottle of hand soap sat next to the faucet, innocuous in the blood soaked room. Pearl white liquid filled the bottle, and the paper label was smooth with the edges still properly glued down. It was new.

A tube of toothpaste and a single pink toothbrush were in the medicine cabinet. A hair comb with long, dark strands caught in the bristles. A bar of women's deodorant.

He'd just assumed he was in some abandoned bathroom in an industrial building. A warehouse or factory. But he wasn't. This was an apartment.

No toilet paper in the dispenser, but he found several rolls in the cabinet under the sink. Who put him here hadn't wanted an exposed roll to soak in the blood. Derek understood now that he was the one who made the mess. His desperate hunger, his crying need to drink from those heavy plastic bags bulging with blood . . . he hadn't been able to control himself.

The pain, the scalding white agony which had seared through his body with pitiless intensity had been soothed only with the ingestion of creamy cool blood. He couldn't remember doing it, but he knew he'd torn at the blood bags. Savaging them while trying to get at the liquid inside with only his blunt teeth to rip.

It was a horror. Fear shot like poison through his veins.

What else did he know? He was bare foot.

His boots, but also his socks had been stripped from him. The floor was cold, and stickiness pulled at the bottoms of his feet. His clothes itched as the blood soaked into them began to dry and flake. T-shirt plastered to the front of his chest. Jeans turning to cardboard. Some of it was from his violent feeding.

Most of it was his own.

Derek remembered what happened to him. His last memory before waking in this place; the woman in the white blouse and her sharp teeth lacerating his throat. The spill of hot blood down the front of him, followed by an icy numbness he now recognized had been his body going into shock.

Derek braced himself on the sink, trembling at the memory. His vision blurring as he watched water dripping off the tips of his fingers . . .

When it happened, he thought she cut his throat; severing his artery in one rough stroke. He hadn't seen any weapon but what else was there? Now, thinking back, he realized he'd been wrong. She'd driven her teeth into his skin and they'd been sharp as needles in his throat. The burning pain of her bite faded quickly; replaced by a sort of pinch . . . she'd bitten down harder when he tried to fight.

Disbelief competed with his own heightened sense of survival.

It was the implication. The sheer senselessness of what he was experiencing now, that froze him in place. He was lingering rather in a place he had no business being because he was bewildered and afraid.

He _**remembered**_ dying.

He knew what he'd done when he regained consciousness. Crimson slashes over the walls, dripping from the light fixture and showerhead testament to his mindless savagery.

He was able to understand both events separately – the before, and the now – but could not bring himself to make those pieces fit. There was an idea which danced off the edge of his rationality, like a wisp of smoke. One he was afraid to look at. To consider that maybe, no matter how crazy the conclusion, he knew what had been done to him . . .

He knew.

Again, Derek lifted his eyes to meet his reflected gaze. The mirror showed him those same golden bursts around the pupils, which had never been there before. Liquid gold and actually very beautiful.

They were _**her**_ eyes.

Autumn. She called herself Autumn.

For a moment Derek thought he could smell the floral perfume of her hair. Feel echoes of her hands digging into his shoulders, inhuman strength holding him still while she buried her face in his throat. And he could still taste the blood in his mouth. Sharp and sour, very different from how it tasted to him now.

He trembled and from just outside the bathroom, he heard the front door open . . .

. . . she was back.


End file.
